


Freak

by arby



Series: Darkest Before Dawn [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode: s01e06 Skin, First Time, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-07
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 16:07:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arby/pseuds/arby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been a month since the incident with the shapeshifter, and Sam still wouldn't tell Dean what that bastard did to him. So Dean decided to drink it out of him. (As in, get him drunk, not become a vampire. This is not that kind of story, sheesh. Not that there's anything wrong with that.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU for _Skin_. Some dialogue directly quoted from the episode. Sequel to _Darkness_, therefore it is recommended to read that first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published on Livejournal [here](arby-m.livejournal.com/13682.html).

It had been a month since the incident with the shapeshifter, and Sam still wouldn't tell Dean what that bastard did to him. Aside from taunt him, cut him, and tie him up, that is. There was obviously something else - Sam still wouldn't meet his eyes, and flinched away from a casual touch as if scalded. He brooded constantly now, instead of just every other minute. He was listless and lifeless, a zombie shadow of his former self, as if he wasn't all there. Seeing it broke what was left of Dean's heart. He'd hoped the thorn would work its way out in time, but no such luck. He himself had done his Dean-denial best to bury that night deep in his memory, the horror of that night, shell-shocked Sam and the things stirred up in himself by witnessing it, but the moments of stolen sweetness amid the darkness shone out like a silver knife blade in a pile of entrails, and made it impossible to let go of. He had become to resigned to the idea that it would haunt him forever, until one of them was dead. _Hell, probably even after._

Dean didn't quite know what to do - he was somewhat aware that being sensitive was not his strong point. So he tried badgering it out of him. When that didn't work, he tried cajoling, pleading and surprising it out of him, but all his efforts just made Sam clam up even tighter. Finally, in desperation, he decided to drink it out of him.

They were stopping in Hadley for a night on the way to Boston. They got into town sort of early for them, and they didn't have any homework (read: research) to do. So Dean suggested they hit the bar next to their shitbag motel. Sam shrugged, as if it made no difference to him. Dean took that as agreement, or the closest he was going to get anyway. But first Sam had to take yet another shower. He was showering as often as three times a day now, if they didn't sleep in the car. It was one thing to be hygienic, but even Dean could tell that this wasn't normal. He went out to the car to give Sam some privacy, which he also seemed to need a lot more lately.

He lit a cigarette, leaning against the car in a classic cool guy pose. This place was pretty depressing, all right. The church across the street was boarded up and its windows regarded him like blinded eyes. Crows congregated on its front lawn as if holding private funerals. Even the strip malls infesting the town were abandoned and creepy, their displays populated only by half-naked dummies tilting in all directions. In general Dean tried not to notice things like that, unless they set off his weirdar. There was nothing he could do about it, so it did no good to care.

Turned out his little brother had gotten a lot better at holding his liquor since the last time they'd tried to drink each other under the table. It must have been all the keg parties. _As if Sam would go to keg parties. He was probably too busy studying in the library like a geek_. He was knocking back the shots as if he didn't even feel them. Dean faked as many as he realistically could, trying to get Sam drunk before he did. But when they got to the tequila shots, it became a real effort. Finally he judged the time was right.

"So."

Sam looked at him with wan suspicion. Some small, sober, possibly reptilian part of Dean's brain noted that he almost, but not quite, looked Dean in the eye. "What?"

"Now will you tell me what happened?"

"What happened with what? Please tell me you're not talking about the shapeshifter again," Sam sighed, a combination of drunkenness, weariness and annoyance in his voice - which made two more emotions than Dean had heard from him since it happened.

"I am. Seriously, I need to know. How else can I help you get through it?"

"Get through _what_? There's no damage."

"Don't lie to me, dude. I can tell."

There was a long pause. Dean kept quiet. Sam had to decide for himself now. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Sam shook his head, frowning, and stared into space.

Finally Sam started to speak, haltingly, excruciatingly; the words welling out of him like drops of blood from a dozen pinpricks. He kept his gaze fixed solid on a distant corner of nowhere, as if it would keep him safe from the memory.

"He said...a lot of things. About you, about us... Things he claimed you feel - or felt. I don't know how much of it was true, but - _do_ you resent me for going to school? I'm sorry I ditched you with Dad."

"Hey." Dean's hand twitched as if to touch Sam's arm, but then he thought better of it. "I felt kinda bad there, for a while after you left, but I got over it. I admit sometimes I'm jealous of you. But I don't hate you, and don't you ever think that. God, I wish I could bring that guy back from the dead just to kill him again - fucking bastard."

Sam was still sitting unnaturally still. His voice was small, distant, as if coming from the far corner.

"There's more."

Dean braced himself. He felt stone cold sober, and somehow he doubted Sammy was all that drunk, either.

"He...did things to me. Touched me, even kissed me...Said you'd always wanted to do it and he was going to take your chance." The words spilled out of him now, faster and faster, as the pinpricks turned into little wounds. "I tried not to believe him but it made me so confused, I didn't know what to think. And the time afterwards, that night, I had a dream..." he was reddening with shame.

_Shit_. This is exactly what he was afraid of. That son of a bitch. How _ dare_ he mess with Sam's head like that? Sammy was never supposed to know what was in Dean's mind - it was a dark and downright unhealthy place to be. Strange things went on in there, things he'd never planned on sharing with anyone. And that night, he'd been taking care of Sam. The fact that it ended with them in each other's arms made it no less comfort, he thought defensively, and how much Dean enjoyed it was neither here nor there. He didn't take advantage of the situation, though he could have. The very thought of that made him feel nauseous.

"_Listen_. I know our lives were fucked-up and weird, but I would never…molest you like that. You gotta believe me, Sammy, I was looking out for you. I don't..."

Finally Sam turned to look at him, and the sudden fierceness of his incandescent gaze, a supernova blazing with raw pain and need, hit Dean like a punch to the gut. He tried not to recoil from the sheer force of it.

Sam said bitterly, "No - you don't understand, man. I'm confused because I _ liked it_." His voice was full of self-loathing. "In fact, it was the first thing that felt right since...since Jess."

At this, Dean did not know what to do with his face. He had to look away.

"See? Even you think I'm sick. I know it's not my fault, that's what they drum into your head at school, you know? It's never the victim's fault. Women don't ask to be raped. But a guy thinking about his own brother that way? How can that be right?" Sam was almost crying.

"I do _not_ think you're sick. Stop beating yourself up about it. We didn't grow up like other kids, you know? We only had each other." He had to tread very carefully here. "Look, it may not be right according to what society says, but when have we ever cared about that? We're always wrong; we're always on the outside, right? If you feel something a little more for me than brotherly affection, that's not the end of the world."

Sam said nothing, only sniffed morosely and wiped his eyes with his sleeve like a child.

"Hey, let's get some sleep, okay? I'm...uh...sorry, you know, about what happened, but I'm glad you told me. Things'll be better in the morning, I promise."

* * * * *

Sam crawled into bed and curled his long body up in the fetal position. Dean sat in the chair by the window and tried to stay awake to make sure Sam was sleeping, but kept nodding off despite himself. After about the fifth time he jerked awake, he listened closely to Sam's breathing, and it sounded like he was really asleep for once. So he stripped off his t-shirt and jeans and climbed into the bed in his undershorts.

He dreamed he was looking into a basement window. It was dark inside, but he could see a figure tied up in a chair. What light there was was streaming through the windows in that annoying movie effect so that he couldn't see who it was. Another shadow shaped like a person was circling the first in a menacing fashion. He moved closer to see if he could hear what they were saying.

"Where. Is. My brother." Sam gritted.

"_I'm_ your brother," the shapeshifter responded smoothly. Then it continued, obviously carrying on the conversation from before Dean started eavesdropping, "See deep down, I'm just jealous. You got friends, you could have a life. Me? I know I'm a freak. And sooner or later everybody's gonna leave me."

Hearing this made Dean feel ill. It was too true. He felt like shouting through the window, _you're not supposed to hear this!_

Sam said, "What are you talking about?" He sounded thrown off guard, as if he couldn't just ignore what it was saying anymore.

The shapeshifter said, "You left. Hell, I did everything Dad asked me to and he ditched me too. No explanation, nothin', just _poof_. Left me with your sorry ass."

Dean thought: _All true except the last part. You were never a burden to me, Sammy._

He tried to open the window but it was stuck fast and barred. He looked for another way in, but couldn't find one. There was nothing he could do but watch as the monster that looked like him took his brother apart, one piece at a time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published on Livejournal [here](http://arby-m.livejournal.com/13934.html).

Dean awoke in a cold sweat and sat bolt upright in horror. It was so much worse even than he had imagined. He looked over at Sam, who was still sleeping, thank God. He threw on his pants and went outside, to cling to the railing of the porch outside the hotel room as if he were drunk or seasick.

He tried to light a cigarette but somehow he couldn't get it to work. His breath was hitching despite himself, and he felt like he was going to throw up. He was flooded with so many contradictory emotions - rage at that _thing_ for hurting Sam, aching compassion for Sammy in his agony, overwhelming guilt at thinking those things, feeling those things the shapeshifter used against Sam, and underneath it all some sort of horrible joy at knowing Sam wanted him. _ What the hell is wrong with me?_ He'd tried to fight it for so long, the effort was wearing him out. To his utter shame, he found that he was crying. He never cried. It just wasn't something that was allowed to happen. And of all times, now was just…not appropriate. Sam was the one who had been hurt. God, what that thing did to him…it was unspeakable. No wonder he hadn't wanted to talk about it. If anyone had the right to cry, it was Sam. Dean had to suck it up. At this, some traitorous part of him said, _as usual_. This made him cry even harder. Jesus, he had to get it together. What if Sammy heard him, or came outside and saw him like this? _Don't show fear, you have to be strong for him._ He could almost hear Dad's voice saying it. What if he didn't want to be the strong one all the time? Well, that's just too fucking bad. Tell that to the demons, the ghosts that'd sooner kill you than look at you, _crybaby_. Why don't you go whine to them and see how far you get.

_Me and Dad, we're never going to let you go._ There was a horrible, distorted truth to that. It had never occurred to Dean that perhaps it wasn't fair to Sam, to hang on so tightly, that they might be suffocating him. He was all they had, he and Dad, without Sam their lives were a pathetic exercise in self-isolation. Together they were a family, though a wounded and broken one - alone they were just two weird losers constantly on the run.

But didn't Sam deserve his own chance, the one that Dean never got? To get away, to live in a world where your loved ones weren't burned on the ceiling for your sins, and your own brother didn't crave the touch of your lips on his? Yes, he had to conclude, though it almost killed him to admit it - when you looked at it that way, Sam did deserve to be free. Every fiber of his being ached with denial and the supreme injustice of it. It was too late for Dean, and fighting demons was all he'd ever been good at anyway.

He felt a dull, sinking sensation as the familiar burden of his life settled back down on his shoulders. It had always been there, of course, but for a moment there had been the possibility that things could somehow be different, and now he saw the tiny candle of that hope snuffed out for having the temerity to burn.

It didn't matter anyway. It made no difference, what he wanted. That had never been part of the equation. Feeling numb, he turned and went back inside the motel room.

Sam was awake. Dean went and sat on his own bed, unable to look directly at his brother, but he could see out of the edge of his vision that Sam had a weird look in his eyes, a bright little spark of what might be hope. It gave Dean an enormous sense of foreboding.

There was silence. Dean could sense Sam staring at him, trying to figure out what to say.

"Look, don't bother, okay? I figured it out. You don't have to stay with me and Dad if you don't want to. Go to school, be a lawyer, have a normal life. We'll survive without you."

"Wait, where did _that_ come from?" Sam sounded confused.

"I heard what the shapeshifter said. I...saw the whole thing in a dream. I know I made fun of your dreams before and said they were freaky mojo, but I had one and I think it was true."

Sam was taken aback by this. "So you know...everything?"

"I guess. Did it say you drove Dad away and killed Jess? Did it say I think I'm a freak and everyone's gonna leave me? 'Cause let me give you a hint - the first one is a total lie but the second one is kind of true."

"Dean...I don't want to leave you. You were never the one I was trying to get away from. It was just Dad. And let's not get into that whole debate again - we should agree to disagree on the subject of Dad. I'll just say that he was the reason I couldn't bear to hunt any more. You were the only thing that kept me there. And you were the one I was sorry to leave." Sam's tone was oddly tender.

Hearing this made Dean feel funny. He couldn't put his finger on this emotion, but it quickly became nervousness. He stole a glance at Sam out of the corner of his eye. Sam was sitting on the edge of his bed, leaning forward, watching Dean with an unnerving intensity.

Dean scowled. This was not going the way he had imagined at all.

"Well, it's a package deal - me and Dad or nothing at all, okay?"

"I guess. If you say so. If we can ever find Dad - if he even wants to be found." Sam's voice had moved closer. It sounded like he was sitting on Dean's bed now. Dean refused to look.

"Dean…that night, after you got me away from the shapeshifter, did something happen? I mean, between you and me? I had a dream, but then there was a part I'm not sure about, I mean if it was a dream or if it was real…"

God, not this. He'd thought he was safe when Sam believed it was all a dream.

"Look, you were upset, okay? You were crying, and I didn't know what to do. I was comforting you. We just slept, that's all. Nothing happened."

Despite himself Dean looked over. Sam's eyes were wide and positively shining with that frightening glow. He inched a little bit closer.

Dean stared at the floor, ashamed of himself. He wasn't even sure what he'd done wrong but he knew there was something. It wasn't right, the fact that he wanted Sam so badly that the act of giving comfort had become all tangled up in his mind with something more carnal. He was the older one, it had always been his job to set the example, to do what was right so he could show Sammy.

Suddenly he felt a warm hand on his arm.

"Dean, look at me." Sam's voice was quiet but firm.

"I don't wanna." He knew he sounded like a child, but couldn't help it.

"C'mon. It's okay, really," Sam was coaxing. "You didn't do anything wrong.".

_Yeah, right._ That was patently untrue. He finally looked straight at Sammy, just to prove him wrong, and Sam shocked him by moving in and kissing him, gentle and sweet with just a suggestion of something more. He reeled back in astonishment, and then Sam kissed him again, with more heat behind it, those soft lips parting and a warm tongue creeping out to taste Dean's mouth, and despite himself Dean found his own hands drifting up to touch Sammy's hair, the texture of it achingly familiar. Dean broke the kiss, and looked at Sam for a long moment. He seemed genuinely pleased by this turn of events. Again, far too good to be true.

"You don't know what you want. I can't take advantage of you like this! Sooner or later you'll regret it and I'll never be able to live with myself."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Hey, I'm not twelve. In fact, I'm over twenty-one, so legally able to decide for myself. I want this. I've wanted it for a long time, it just took the shapeshifter to make me realize it."

Dean saw his opening and seized it. "Ah, see - you're traumatized! You've been through a horrible experience and it's warped your mind. You'd never want this if you hadn't been abused by that motherfucker."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Oh, _please_. Now you're just making excuses. Do you want me or don't you? This is me, throwing myself at your feet."

"It's not about what I want. It's about what's right. And me, making moves on you? Not right."

"But you're not making a move on me." His voice went lower, became almost sultry. "_I'm_ making a move on _you_." And as if to prove it, he leaned over and kissed Dean again, this time leaving absolutely no doubt of his intentions.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published on Livejournal [here](http://arby-m.livejournal.com/14534.html).

Dean felt like he'd been hit by lightning. Every hair on his body stood up as if electrified. He groaned into Sam's mouth helplessly. How could this _possibly_ be okay? Didn't Sam know that the universe never allowed him to feel this good?

It was like that endless period of time between being drunk enough to do anything guilt-free and too drunk to realize what was going on. Dean would have done anything Sam asked - take ecstasy, streak through a gay bar, give Dad what-for, walk through fire naked with olives up his nose - you name it, he'd have done it without a second thought. Of course under normal circumstances (_when he's not sticking his tongue down my throat_, Dean's helpful brain amended) Dean would do anything for Sam, but he usually drew the line at public nudity. Usually. Exceptions could be made for life or death situations, of course.

Sam's eyes were fluttering; Dean could feel those ridiculously long lashes tickling his cheek. His heart was pounding fit to burst; he was almost hyperventilating. Surely this was the very definition of a bad idea.

He drew back, panting, grabbed Sam's hand and placed it on his chest.

"Look what you're doing to me. I swear to _God_, Sammy, this is so wrong."

Sam just smiled. It was like looking into the sun. Dean stared at him. Cheeks flushed, eyes bright, lips pink, he looked like a kid again. But Dean hadn't seen Sammy smile like that, ever. It was part cat-ate-the-canary and part Mona Lisa. And if _that_ wasn't the gayest thought that had ever run through Dean's head, he didn't want to know what was.

"You said it yourself, Dean - we're not normal, and never have been. So why would this be any different?" And the hand on Dean's chest moved gently, slipping open a button on his shirt.

Dean tried very hard not to show that he was totally freaking out inside. But Sam saw right through his act, as always.

"It's okay. We can go slow." If he even thought about laughing, Dean would kill him.

"Have you ever…"

"Done this before?" Dean nodded. "Yeah, once. Freshman year."

Dean didn't know what to say to that, torn between wanting to kick the guy's ass and amazement that Sammy, of all people, knew something he didn't in the sex department.

Now Sam did laugh out loud at the look on Dean's face, yet somehow Dean let him live.

"No need to go all mama-bear on me, it was completely consensual. And not that serious anyway. More of a fling, really."

Finally Dean found his voice. "Who are you and what have you done with Sammy?"

Sam just looked at him. The afterglow of that smile still lingered in his eyes. Dean felt something wound tight inside him gradually relaxing as he let himself believe that this… _thing_, whatever it was, seemed to make Sam - happy? He almost didn't recognize the look. It was like the way Sam'd been at Stanford, from what Dean'd seen anyway, or how he acted when one of his friends called. _ As long as it's not bad news_, he amended, remembering what's her face, Rebecca, the blondie. Dean tried to separate himself from the fear that automatically welled up in him at the thought of Sam away from him (_you got friends, you could have a life_) and focus on the now. Obviously Dean was doing something right. He glanced over at Sam again, uncharacteristically silent, who looked serene, like they had all the time in the world.

Dean smiled at him, tentative, feeling like a total girl. That blinding grin came back, and the look in Sam's eyes was so warm, Dean could feel it melting something that had been frozen in him for a very long time. He looked, and let himself feel the longing that had been buried shameful wrong, because looking led to longing led to touching, which had never been okay before.

* * * *

Sam watched as Dean did the math over and over again and somehow kept coming up with the wrong answer. It was okay, no need to worry. He remembered times when, after pulling an all-nighter studying, he'd taken a test the next morning shivering and lightheaded, a raw jitter of nerves glued together with No-Doz and Dr. Pepper, then staggered back to his room to crash during the free period before his next class. That feeling, when he finally got to lie down for the first time in hours upon hours, of being swaddled in a downy, drowsing blanket of relief from pain, of coming in from the cold having almost forgotten what warmth felt like, that delicious sensation of tingling velvety goodness bathed in serotonin telling him _everything's okay, you're safe now, you've made it through the worst_ \- that was the feeling he had now. Dean could take his time, all the time he needed. Sammy wasn't going anywhere.


End file.
